


A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush

by Squidink



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 00:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/998726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walter is just surprised he managed to catch Jesse at a time when there’s not a mass of dreaming junkies spread out all over his floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the Breaking Bad kink meme: " _Walt is berating Jesse for something he's done. They end up in a scuffle, and Walt, maybe wanting to shock Jesse into relenting, starts spanking him. To everyone's surprise Jesse really, really likes it._ "
> 
> So, I am incapable of writing fluffy stuff, apparently. Oops?? Takes place is some horrible, joyless universe in which _Fly_ never happens.

 “So this is how it’s going to be,” Walter says, sweeping one arm to encompass the whole of Jesse’s domain, a kingdom of drugs and graffiti and trash.  Jesse didn’t even bother to lock his door, and, really, why should he?  Aunt Ginny’s beloved house, apparently, has become a dismal halfway home for addicts and vagrants.  Walter is just surprised he managed to catch Jesse at a time when there’s not a mass of dreaming junkies spread out all over his floor.  Incredulous disdain pulls his lip into a sneer. “This is how you’re choosing to live your life.”

Jesse has the audacity to laugh, disbelieving.  He looks tired, but maybe he’s just hung-over.  After all, he doesn’t hold to any degree of an ordered schedule anymore.  “Oh my god, Mr. White, it’s, like, three in the morning.  This is way too early for an intervention.” He yawns. “I thought you said this was important.  Like work-related.”

“Do you think this is funny?” Walter barks.  It has the intended effect; Jesse startles, snapping to attention.  “Do you realize the position you have put me in?”

“No,” Jesse says, slowly.  He looks unsure of himself.  One shoulder rises in a negligent shrug, and he folds his arms together. “Are you lecturing me?  Really?”

“What, do you think— you have put me at risk, you are putting my family at risk, and for what?  So you, you can puff away on some stolen product?” 

“I told you I didn’t steal it.”  There he is, lying right to Walter’s face without even a blink, sullen and resentful like some petty street urchin.

Walter holds up a warding finger, shakes his head.  “Don’t— don’t you even try to lie to me, Jesse.”  Walter wants to shake him, do something to wake him up to their new reality.  These people do not play around.  They do not forgive little surplus junkies with idle fingers.  He will not stand by and let Jesse be killed, he will save Jesse even if he has to drag him kicking and screaming into salvation.  If he has to, he will take him back to rehab, though he would rather do this under Gus’s radar.  He can’t give them the slightest excuse to get rid of Jesse.  “What do you think Gus is going to do when he realizes what a liability you are becoming?  Do you think he is going to hesitate to get rid you?”

Jesse has the good grace to look a little guilty, but he doesn’t budge an inch. “What I do on my own time is my own business, Mr. White.”

Walter would be better off to just walk away, but it’s _Jesse,_ and he can’t, he could never leave him to this.

“Jesse, you are being unreasonable.”  He cannot understand why Jesse just does not listen to him.  Nearly from the very start, Walter has looked out for him, has worked for their mutual best interest.  He has bled for this idiot boy; he has done insane, horrible things, and Jesse just— Jesse _insists_ on spitting it right back out, like Walter’s help is poison.  Walter fights to keep his voice even, but every word comes out tight and strained.  “I paid for your rehab.  _I_ did.  And I’m not going to sit here, and watch you,” Walter’s resolve snaps, and he snarls, “watch you piss it all away.  Do you hear me?  I won’t stand for it.”

“What I do isn’t _up to you_!” Jesse’s voice cracks, and he presses both hands over his face. “Jesus, Mr. White, I am not your fucking son, alright?  Got it?  You don’t own me.”

Now it’s Walter’s turn to startle, shaken despite himself.  Jesse is not his son, he knows that, he _knows_ , but it makes his heart ache to hear it.  Jesse has betrayed the dirty little secret they held between them.  Walter has only ever had the best intentions for Jesse, and Jesse has forever thrown them back in his face at every turn, no matter what he does.  Yes, Jesse is no son of his, that’s for sure.  Jesse is just another self-destructing, delinquent junkie, some—some aweless parasitic brat that somehow worked himself into Walter’s system, sneaking in like a thief in the night.  Walter feels his face flush hot, his hands curl into claws at his side. 

“Oh, I am well aware of that.  Look at you! Ha!” Walter flings out his arm, gesturing up and down Jesse’s skinny body.  His lips draw back in a sneer, and he turns, kicks a mass of pizza boxes and garbage over in helpless, spiteful rage. “Do you think any son of mine would make the same stupid decisions as you?  You— you fuck up!  Constantly! And you continue to do it again, and again, it’s like you just can’t learn!” And, oh, he’s only getting started.  Walter looks up, ready to enumerate all the myriad ways Jesse has ruined him— and grinds to a halt.  Jesse is— slack-jawed, wounded, like Walter just hit him where he lives.  He sees Walter looking, catches something in his expression, and his gaze drops low, his jaw clenching tight.  Walter’s fury starts to sputter and go out.  He sags back, leans all his weight on the end table, absently brushing aside the clutter.  This is all a mess.  “Look, Jesse…”

 “Fuck you.”  Jesse’s hands ball up at his sides. “Just— just get out of my house.”

“No, Jesse, we need to—”

“Jesus fuck, get out of my house!” Jesse yanks the door open, stands by it. “ _Leave_ , Mr. White.”

Walter feels a pang of... something, deep in his chest, winding tight all over again. Get out? _Get out_? “What, are you going to throw a tantrum now?  Huh?”  Walter storms over, and before he knows it, he wrenches Jesse back, slams the door shut hard enough to rattle in its frame.  He stalks forward, and Jesse reels away, put off-balance by Walter’s sudden intensity.  Jesse starts to speak and Walter shoves him, then shoves him again, sends him pitching back onto the futon. “You are going to listen to me, since you clearly can’t be trusted to make your own decisions.” Jesse tries to stand up, and Walter pushes him back down easily. Too easily.  The drugs have made him weaker, they are ruining him, and he’s just too damn dumb to see it.  Walter is only trying to help him, as he has always done, if only Jesse were wise enough to see it. “Now you are going to do what I say,” Walter says. He tries to quell the way his voice shakes. “And you are going to get off the drugs, and you are going to start tonight.  _Now_.”

“No,” Jesse says, like the ridiculous, surly brat he so clearly is. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Do you want me to treat you like a child? _Do you_?”

“Oh, yeah, old man, I’m freakin’ begging for it here.  What are you gonna do, huh, bend me over your knee?”

Walter goes still. “If that’s what it takes.”

Jesse starts to stand up again, and Walter slaps him, hard, right across the face.  Jesse staggers, half-catches himself on the armrest.  He kicks out at Walter’s leg, sends him crashing into Jesse and they both sprawl across the futon.  It judders under the impact, and one of the hinges breaks with a squeal.  Jesse’s elbow digs into Walter’s ribs, and he tries to spring free, only to trip over the table legs and land awkwardly askew atop Walter.

Walter grabs him by the waist, heaves him across his knees and smacks him as hard as he can right on the ass. 

“Oh, _god_!” Jesse’s back arches, his whole body jolts, his hips—

Walter sits in stunned silence, his hand still curved over Jesse’s ass.   That wasn’t pain.  That certainly wasn’t the indignation he was expecting.  He stares down at Jesse, processing, locked together with him in this ridiculous tableau.  He did not imagine that.  That was…

“… Mr. White?”  Jesse rasps.  He sounds just as shocked as Walter.  “I—I don’t—”

Walter can feel the tensing of Jesse’s body across his thighs; he’s starting to get up, trying to scramble away, so Walter follows his instinct, and whacks him again.  Jesse cries out, and just like that he’s petrified like a rabbit in the headlights, fine tremors running through him.  So Walter hits him again, harder.  Jesse’s arm buckles and he collapses back down, the strength gone out of him.  Walter spanks him again, and again and again, thrilling as Jesse jolts after each blow.  This is a quantifiable, controllable reaction. Walter knows there is no measure he will not take to keep Jesse safe, to keep him in line where he can be protected.  He will keep Jesse here, and he will _make_ him listen, even if he has to smack the fight right out of him.  Walter’s arm starts to ache, but it’s a good feeling, the satisfying kind of burn you get when you work hard at anything physically demanding.  Walter knows the secret, now; Jesse is getting some enjoyment from this.  Jesse’s hips seem to rock against Walter’s thigh, frantic, needy, even as he cries out, confused and shaken and mortified.  Walter is doing this _for_ Jesse, Jesse needs to see it, needs to see Walter will provide for him.  He will break down all the barriers that have come between them; he can get Jesse to understand he only has his well-being in mind.  Jesse is important to him.  Why can’t he understand that? “Mr. White, please, I— _ah_!”  Jesse is practically family.

Jesse squirms, clutches at the cushion, tries to pull himself free.  Walter slams his free hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place.  He can feel Jesse’s heart pounding in his ribs. He presses down until Jesse wheezes, holds him tight against Walter’s lap; it feels good.  “Please, Mr. White! Sto—” Walter bends his back into each smack, laying into him as hard as he can.  He is burning up, sweating with the strain and the smothering heat.  His palm is filled with pins and needles, his bones ache from each slap, and Jesse has started a constant, banshee wail, egging him on to do it faster, harder, throwing every bit of brute strength in his body behind it—  “Stop it— no, no— _please, stop_!”  Jesse breaks off with a hysterical sob.

Walter freezes.

Jesse, sensing his moment, twists away and slides down the rest of the way to the floor.  Walter can only watch distantly as he kicks away from the couch, rolls onto his side, crawls away from Walter.  He is shaking, hard, and now Walter can hear the frightened whining edge to his breathing.

“Oh, no,” Walter says, faintly.  Somehow the sound of his own voice propels him to his feet.  In stutter motion, he starts toward Jesse, and stops, paralyzed.  He looks around, bewildered, at this suddenly unfamiliar, empty, cavernous house.  Jesse is curled up some feet away, humiliated, _terrified_ , covering his face with one hand. His cheeks are red and wet. He won't meet Walter's eyes. “Oh, no.  I didn’t mean to.”  That wasn’t him.  That wasn’t something Walter intended.  He is not by nature a violent man.  He would never— he would never _hurt_ Jesse.  Why would he ever set out to do something knowing it would hurt him?

Walter looks down at himself, and belatedly realizes he is aroused.  His gorge rises. He feels abruptly lightheaded, and wishes that there was a window open somewhere, so he could get some air.

“Jesse, I would never.”  His palms are beaten red, the fat heels darkening with what could be bruises, and they throb with every beat of his heart.  Leaden, horrified realization chokes him; his eyes burn but don’t water up.  “I.  I, um,” Walter puts his hands in his pockets, where it is safer.  They ache, but he supposes that is only natural.  He can’t bring himself to look down.  He shifts his weight from foot to foot, starts forward, aborts it, and then lunges for the door, filled with a frenzied, manic energy.   He sees Jesse flinch, fearfully quiet, from the corner of his eye, as he yanks the door open.  He half turns, gasps, “I have to go.  I’m sorry.  I have to go,” and flees.

The best he can manage is an uneven, reeling jog to his car.  Everything seems far away, until it’s not, until he finds himself staring at his doppelganger reflected in his car’s window, monstrously wild-eyed and red-faced, his mouth opened in a black gape.  Walter closes his eyes against it, winces at the breathtaking pain in his fingers as he opens the car door, and fumbles with his seatbelt.  There’s an inexplicable ringing in his ears.  Is that from Jesse screaming?  Did his neighbors hear?  Did someone call the police?  _Would_ anyone?  His neighbors must be used to strange noises.  Walter looks around sure he is going to meet some censorious, knowing eye, but all the windows down the street are dark.  People are likely asleep.  No one heard a thing.

He pulls out his phone, haltingly dials Jesse’s number by memory.  It’s a tender agony; his hands are a confusing mass of numbness and stinging torment, but he holds the phone to his ear, listens to it ring and ring and ring until the answering machine picks up.  For a moment, he can’t make a sound, his tongue too heavy; his throat too raw to work.  All that comes out is a thin, wet keen, and his closes his eyes and forces himself to speak, even if it only comes out a rasping whisper. “Jesse, I— that wasn’t.  That wasn’t anything I intended.  I wouldn’t—  I want you—I want you to know I have, I, I only have ever had the best of—” Walter cuts off, sets his burning forehead against the steering wheel.  Something stinks, and he abstractedly realizes it’s him, reeking of sour sweat and fear. “I can assure you, that will never – _never_ – happen again.  I swear it, Jesse, I swear on my _life_.  And— you must be upset, now, with me— you must be angry! And I understand that, I do.  And, I feel that we should.  We should _talk_ about that, and.” Walter takes a deep, shaking breath. “I’m going to give you some time, to, uh.  I’ll be by… I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?  Alright.  I.  I’m so… Good night, Jesse.”  He starts to hang up, hesitates, breathing hard, his eyes ticking back and forth.  No, that’s enough, that’s enough for now.  He snaps his phone closed.  He starts his car. 

He realizes he’s still achingly erect.   Walter presses his fist to his mouth, bites his knuckles to tamp down a panic-stricken scream.

This will all be okay.  They will talk tomorrow, and Jesse— he will talk to Jesse.  It will be okay.  Jesse will get off the drugs and they will never have to think about this again. They’ve been through so much together; this was a misfire, a one-off.

“It will look better tomorrow,” Walter says, and his voice quavers uncertainly, like it was a question.   He carefully backs out into the street.  Once they all get a good night’s sleep, this will seem so much easier.  He just needs to rest on it.

Everything is going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed.


End file.
